original naturalistic foundation of it is to be found in the wonderful effects which may be witnessed on any still autumn starlit night in the Himālayas, at Darjeeling or elsewhere. Climbing a high hill commanding a wide prospect over the distant snowy range, the meaning of the poet's comparison of the Sea of Milk to the "thin shining clouds of autumn" can be realised; for one looks down upon a vast motionless sea of milk-white clouds stretching out to the far horizon, and dotted here and there with islands formed by the highest mountain peaks. Stretching across the deep blue vault of heaven, the Milky Way, the Great Serpent of Eternity, encircling the earth, is seen, the planets glittering like jewels in his many heads. In the solemn stillness of the night Sēsha watches ceaselessly while Nārāyana sleeps upon his coils. No wonder that the Indian mystic meditating on the marvellous prospect in front of him feels himself transported to the shores of the cosmic ocean, to the edge of that limitless expanse of ākāsha in which all the worlds lie floating.
Then towards morning, before it is yet dawn, there is a sudden stirring in the air and the Sea of Milk begins to be agitated. The Dēvas, the bright spirits of the day, as yet invisible, have seized the tail of the Serpent and the churning of the cosmic ocean has begun. The clouds begin to break up into whirling wreaths of evaporation, and it seems as if the depths of the valleys below formed a vast cauldron wherein gods and demons are brewing some mysterious potion. Or is it the smoke of the sacred fire-drill they are turning for the worship of the coming day? A faint reflection on the horizon of Vārunī, the radiance of day, now heralds the approach of the Sun-god's seven-horsed car. The crescent moon which had risen some hours before
